There are the drunk and long asleep, slowly awake from an old date with history.
Has none of them noticed how it came to an end?
How it came to the end? With the first steps, unfamiliar, or maybe not, as no one ever would have dreamt
if someone else hadn't told so.
That again nothing remained, as not one step could be saved for once and all, of distance
and its disappearance in front of all of them.
It is, indifferent, the old step, coming from a nearby age of stone
engraving spectacle of fire and illuminated fish fried to the bone. Still there,
no one touched it,
but distance came, indifferent difference coming from a nearby stone,
the uncertain knowledge of the drunk and ruins certain of the long asleep.
From few hours long asleep, usefull as indifference from such distance seems, the long asleep
gets out of bed
and steps through rooms where not that much should have been changed.
Maybe someone cleaned the table? One wouldn't know.
Steps bring us to a bathroom. There we sit and think. Or maybe not.
Later, or maybe not, looking at the first steps of a nearby tree. In the kitchen
a heap of dreams need to be finished. Wait, wait. A cup of coffee first.
Of breedings new to come any rooster knows, but a sense of limit took the narrative.